


Sometimes Different is Good

by bsmog



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Semi-Canon Compliant, Weddings, but not entirely, lovewins, shameful use of today's events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4216698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bsmog/pseuds/bsmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Phil get married, because today, everyone can do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Different is Good

**Author's Note:**

> Good job, SCOTUS. I probably can't dedicate fic to you in the gift field, so, yeah. Scalia, eat your heart out. 
> 
> Marvel's sandbox, I'm just playing in it. Liberally. 
> 
> Not beta'ed. At all. Sorry not sorry. It's been a good day, what can I say, I'm playing fast and loose here.

“Did you get the-”

“Yep.” 

Clint doesn’t look up from the tv, eyes following the ball across the screen. Any other day, he knows he’d get at least a cursory, “I don’t know what the hell you find so fascinating about women’s soccer,” but Phil doesn’t even slow down as he passes behind Clint’s spot on the couch. 

Today is different, though. Special. So Clint lifts his arm and holds up the small box they’ve been keeping in a bureau for as long as they’ve been together. Wants to make sure Phil knows he’s listening.

Phil grunts, and Clint assumes he wanders back out of the living room, because the rustle of fabric gets quieter, and also the frenetic feeling in the room goes back to zero. Clint smiles. Unflappable Phil Coulson has, at last, been flapped. 

A few hours hours ago they were oblivious, just like the rest of the world. Just another Friday, though a special one in its own right, since they were in the same place at the same time, and no one was trying to break the world or take over Manhattan. The silence in the bedroom was easy. Comfortable. Phil’s glasses were perched on his nose, mouth turned up at whatever comic he’d downloaded last—everyone always thinks Phil’s doing something Very Important on his tablet, even when he’s not working; Clint knows better. It’s usually comics, sometimes Plants vs. Zombies. Clint was pressed against Phil’s side, eyes drifting between the muted television (what, CNN is a decent predictor of when weird shit is about to happen somewhere, you just have to watch the ticker, and plus it would warn him if Tony does something stupid, because _Tony_ ) and the clouds outside. 

Then all of a sudden, it was all #lovewins and rainbows and grown ass men crying on television—and fine, in Clint’s bedroom, shut up, it was emotional, okay? 

Phil hadn’t said a word. Neither of them had. Phil just reached out and ran his fingers over Clint’s left ring finger and looked at him, face calm and sweet and still a little sleepy. Clint could read the question in an instant, because after so many years together in the field and the bedroom and in life, it was hard not to know exactly what Phil was thinking. That’s another thing about Phil: everyone thinks he was so hard to read. Clint just thinks maybe they aren’t all reading the same language as he is.

So he leaned up and kissed Phil and then leaned down and kissed Phil’s right ring finger, because he’s not going to let something like not having a left hand stop him from returning a gesture, because fuck that, and the next thing they knew, they were getting married. 

Like, actually, really, legal-in-all-50-fucking-states-and-fuck-you-very-much-Mississippi-if-you-don’t-like-it married. 

Logistics came later. No, they didn’t care about a big wedding, or even a small one, but okay, fine, the Avengers should probably all get the chance to be witnesses and Phil called his team in from who-the-fuck-knows-where on leave, so there’ll be a merry band at the Clerk’s Office, and Tony’s promised, no shit, “a classy celebration for you and Agent Agent, as long as you don’t change your last name, Barton, because calling you both Agent is just more than I can bear.”

What’s so funny—and it is funny, but only because Clint is Clint, and is usually the one who’s pacing and ranting and raving while Phil is the calm one—is watching Phil have a complete breakdown about it. 

A less secure man would think it’s cold feet. That it’s nerves, that the idea of spending the rest of his life with Clint would suddenly have sent Phil into such a tailspin that eventually they’d call the whole thing off on the grounds of insanity. Not Clint Barton. Phil has done his job over the years so well that Clint knows that Phil’s feet are toasty warm in those fancy wingtips—shined a little extra today, that had been an hour-long activity earlier—and that this is about a lot of things, but none of them are regretting the idea of marrying Clint.

“Clint?”

Phil’s voice echoes from upstairs, and Clint wonders when the hell he’d gotten up there without Clint hearing. 

“Yeah?”

“What about-?”

Clint sighs and rolls his eyes and turns off the tv. Fine. France and Germany can wait, his wedding day only comes around once in a lifetime. Sort of. Not really. Shut up, he’s a spy, life is hard. _This_ wedding day only comes around once in a lifetime, and he’s going to make damn sure he’s not the only one relishing it.

“Coulson. Phil. Babe. Seriously. Get down here.”

Clint hears the sigh from the top of the stairs, probably owing to the use of all of Phil’s names at once. In a moment, Phil’s face looks down onto his where his head is tipped back on the couch cushion. 

“What? I need to-”

“Stop.” Clint says, summoning his very best _Director Coulson_ voice. It’s not very good, but it does make Phil smile a little, so there’s that. 

He holds up a hand, which he knows will mean Phil will come around and sit with him—like he said, he can read Phil like a book. Phil does, posture stiff and hand twitching, and oh this just won’t do at all. Clint leans in and presses his lips to Phil’s, softly at first, a warning, maybe, or a preview. He pulls away.

“You know after all these years, the only thing that matters to me is that you want to marry me, right?”

Phil blinks at him. 

“But-”

“No. Stop. You don’t get to finish a sentence until it’s something other than asking me if I have the rings—you know I do—or the paperwork—please, Phil, this is you we’re talking about, the paperwork is solid and in triplicate—or if my shoes are shined or your tie is straight or if someone is controlling Tony. No one controls Tony, your tie is impeccable—and I have no clue how you manage that with one hand, but it’s hot as hell. My shoes are suede and really can’t be polished, and we’re finally getting married, and it’s absolutely perfect, okay?”

Phil just stares at him for a few seconds, blinking through eyes that are nearly owlish. Clint’s not an insecure man, but goddamn it’d be just fine if Phil wanted to say something right about now. 

He doesn’t. Instead he pushes Clint back into the couch cushions and kisses him like it’ll save his life. It’s deep and wet and filthy and Clint is really fine if they skip the Clerk’s Office until tomorrow. Phil breaks the kiss first, if you can call it that. Their lips are little more than a breath apart, Phil’s eyes are still closed, and Clint can still taste Phil’s lips when he inhales. 

“We only get to do this once,” Phil whispers. 

“Not entirely true,” Clint whispers back, unable to help himself. “There was that mission in San Francisco last year, and then that time we-”

“As _us_.” Phil interrupts him. “As you and me, not Pete Coleman or Chris Bingham or whatever the fuck alias someone comes up with. We plan those to the detail. Everything in our fake weddings is perfect. I just want…”

His voice trails off in a puff of breath against Clint’s. Clint smiles and pulls Phil’s mouth down to his again, kissing him and smiling and not giving a fuck that doing the two at the same time is really fucking hard. 

“We’ve been leading up to this mission for a helluva lot longer than any we’ve ever planned,” he says. “We’ve planned for this one for so many years that the ring box has dust on it that will never come off. I haven’t known much for certain in my life, but I know I love you and you love me, and this country that we spend so much fucking time worrying about and saving has finally decided to give us something back, and we’d better take it and run like hell before some prick takes it back. I want to do this _now, today_ , while the country is celebrating. Makes me feel like today, they’re celebrating us, instead of waiting for us to come save them.”

Phil’s eyes are open now, staring down into Clint’s, but they’re not wide anymore, and the worry lines have been replaced with the soft laugh lines that Clint loves to trace around Phil’s eyes and his mouth. 

“When did you learn to handle me?” Phil whispers, punctuating each word with a kiss.

“Always knew how to handle you, sir. Just took you a while to let me.” 

Clint leers and Phil laughs, and then there’s a lot more kissing, slow and sweet and aimless, which isn’t to say Clint isn’t turned on, but there’s just someplace he has to be, first. 

“C’mon,” he says as they stand. “Let’s go get married.”

Phil’s hair is a little mussed now, and his tie isn’t perfect anymore, but Clint’s learned how to fix that, too, after all these years. He slides his fingers over the knotted silk and brushes Phil’s lapels, letting his hands linger longer than necessary, because they’ve nearly lost each other more times than he likes to admit, but for today, everything is as it should be.

And so they do go and get married, and Clint is certain he’s never smiled so much in his whole goddamn life. They smile at the Clerk, whose eyes are tired but happy, and at each other when their fingers brush over the license, which is all the more special because it’s completely normal and real and doesn’t say S.H.I.E.L.D. anywhere on it. They smile for at least ten thousand pictures, nine thousand of which are taken by Skye and Simmons, who are giggling and crying at the same time. They smile at Tony’s whistles and Cap’s solemn claps on their shoulders and Thor’s very lengthy toasts.

Most importantly, they smile at each other—no, smile isn’t the right word. Grin doesn’t even cover it. Phil’s face is so full of light and joy, and Clint knows his looks the same, and it’s funny, because they don’t get a lot of untainted happiness in their line of work, but this feels as natural as breathing. 

And if Clint hums _Going to the Chapel_ half the night and they spend their wedding night laughing at their respective teams trying to navigate social norms and sneaking kisses and surreptitious glances at the monitor Tony has not-so-subtly left streaming the live feed of the White House lit up in rainbow lights, well, it’s their fucking wedding day. 

Much later, just before he and Phil make their excuses—newlyweds, duh—Clint sits with Phil just on the periphery of the revelry, fingers linked and tired smiles plastered to their faces. Clint knows they’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll be just like today: Phil will read comics, Clint will try to divine an Avengers mission from the CNN ticker, they’ll tangle their feet together and drag out the morning as long as they can. 

But it won’t be the same. Not for them, and not for anyone who, until today, couldn't stand up in front of the people they cared about and declare their love for that one person they wanted to be with forever. 

Sometimes when different changes lives, it’s for the better. 

“C’mon Mr. Agent Agent,” Phil says, squeezing his hand and chuckling, because Tony is close enough to hear and his eyes get very, _very_ big. “Let’s go home.”

And they do.


End file.
